The Dark Tower VII

by Stephen King

  “What do you mean?” asked the rooster-taheen, almost timidly, but Roland wouldn’t say, had only told the creature to pass on the message to any others he might run across.

  Most of the remaining taheen and can-toi left Algul Siento in pairs and triplets, going without argument and nervously looking back over their shoulders every few moments. Jake thought they were right to be afraid, because his dinh’s face that day had been abstract with thought and terrible with grief. Eddie Dean lay on his deathbed, and Roland of Gilead would not bear crossing.

  “What are you going to do to the place?” Jake asked after the afternoon horn had blown. They were making their way past the smoking husk of Damli House (where the robot firemen had posted signs every twenty feet reading OFF-LIMITS PENDING FIRE DEPT. INVESTIGATION), on their way to see Eddie.

  Roland only shook his head, not answering the question.

  On the Mall, Jake spied six Breakers standing in a circle, holding hands. They looked like folks having a séance. Sheemie was there, and Ted, and Dani Rostov; there also was a young woman, an older one, and a stout, bankerly-looking man. Beyond, lying with their feet sticking out under blankets, was a line of the nearly fifty guards who had died during the brief action.

  “Do you know what they’re doing?” Jake asked, meaning the séance-folken—the ones behind them were just being dead, a job that would occupy them from now on.

  Roland glanced toward the circle of Breakers briefly. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Not now,” said the gunslinger. “Now we’re going to pay our respects to Eddie. You’re going to need all the serenity you can manage, and that means emptying your mind.”

  Four

  Now, sitting with Oy outside the empty Clover Tavern with its neon beer-signs and silent jukebox, Jake reflected on how right Roland had been, and how grateful Jake himself had been when, after forty-five minutes or so, the gunslinger had looked at him, seen his terrible distress, and excused him from the room where Eddie lingered, giving up his vitality an inch at a time, leaving the imprint of his remarkable will on every last inch of his life’s tapestry.

  The litter-bearing party Ted Brautigan had organized had borne the young gunslinger to Corbett Hall, where he was laid in the spacious bedroom of the first-floor proctor’s suite. The litter-bearers lingered in the dormitory’s courtyard, and as the afternoon wore on, the rest of the Breakers joined them. When Roland and Jake arrived, a pudgy red-haired woman stepped into Roland’s way.

  Lady, I wouldn’t do that, Jake had thought. Not this afternoon.

  In spite of the day’s alarums and excursions, this woman—who’d looked to Jake like the Lifetime President of his mother’s garden club—had found time to put on a fairly heavy coat of makeup: powder, rouge, and lipstick as red as the side of a Devar fire engine. She introduced herself as Grace Rumbelow (formerly of Aldershot, Hampshire, England) and demanded to know what was going to happen next—where they would go, what they would do, who would take care of them. The same questions the rooster-headed taheen had asked, in other words.

  “For we have been taken care of,” said Grace Rumbelow in ringing tones (Jake had been fascinated with how she said “been,” so it rhymed with “seen”), “and are in no position, at least for the time being, to care for ourselves.”

  There were calls of agreement at this.

  Roland looked her up and down, and something in his face had robbed the lady of her measured indignation. “Get out of my road,” said the gunslinger, “or I’ll push you down.”

  She grew pale beneath her powder and did as he said without uttering another word. A birdlike clatter of disapproval followed Jake and Roland into Corbett Hall, but it didn’t start until the gunslinger was out of their view and they no longer had to fear falling beneath the unsettling gaze of his blue eyes. The Breakers reminded Jake of some kids with whom he’d gone to school at Piper, classroom nitwits willing to shout out stuff like this test sucks or bite my bag…but only when the teacher was out of the room.

  The first-floor hallway of Corbett was bright with fluorescent lights and smelled strongly of smoke from Damli House and Feveral Hall. Dinky Earnshaw was seated in a folding chair to the right of the door marked PROCTOR’S SUITE, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as Roland and Jake approached, Oy trotting along in his usual position just behind Jake’s heel.

  “How is he?” Roland asked.

  “Dying, man,” Dinky said, and shrugged.

  “And Susannah?”

  “Strong. Once he’s gone—” Dinky shrugged again, as if to say it could go either way, any way.

  Roland knocked quietly on the door.

  “Who is it?” Susannah’s voice, muffled.

  “Roland and Jake,” the gunslinger said. “Will you have us?”

  The question was met with what seemed to Jake an unusually long pause. Roland, however, didn’t seem surprised. Neither did Dinky, for that matter.

  At last Susannah said: “Come in.”

  They did.

  Five

  Sitting with Oy in the soothing dark, waiting for Roland’s call, Jake reflected on the scene that had met his eyes in the darkened room. That, and the endless three-quarters of an hour before Roland had seen his discomfort and let him go, saying he’d call Jake back when it was “time.”

  Jake had seen a lot of death since being drawn to Mid-World; had dealt it; had even experienced his own, although he remembered very little of that. But this was the death of a ka-mate, and what had been going on in the bedroom of the proctor’s suite just seemed pointless. And endless. Jake wished with all his heart that he’d stayed outside with Dinky; he didn’t want to remember his wisecracking, occasionally hot-tempered friend this way.

  For one thing, Eddie looked worse than frail as he lay in the proctor’s bed with his hand in Susannah’s; he looked old and (Jake hated to think of it) stupid. Or maybe the word was senile. His mouth had folded in at the corners, making deep dimples. Susannah had washed his face, but the stubble on his cheeks made them look dirty anyway. There were big purple patches beneath his eyes, almost as though that bastard Prentiss had beaten him up before shooting him. The eyes themselves were closed, but they rolled almost ceaselessly beneath the thin veils of his lids, as though Eddie were dreaming.

  And he talked. A steady low muttering stream of words. Some of the things he said Jake could make out, some he couldn’t. Some of them made at least minimal sense, but a lot of it was what his friend Benny would have called ki’come: utter nonsense. From time to time Susannah would wet a rag in the basin on the table beside the bed, wring it out, and wipe her husband’s brow and dry lips. Once Roland got up, took the basin, emptied it in the bathroom, refilled it, and brought it back to her. She thanked him in a low and perfectly pleasant tone of voice. A little later Jake had freshened the water, and she thanked him in the same way. As if she didn’t even know they were there.

  We go for her, Roland had told Jake. Because later on she’ll remember who was there, and be grateful.

  But would she? Jake wondered now, in the darkness outside the Clover Tavern. Would she be grateful? It was down to Roland that Eddie Dean was lying on his deathbed at the age of twenty-five or -six, wasn’t it? On the other hand, if not for Roland, she would never have met Eddie in the first place. It was all too confusing. Like the idea of multiple worlds with New Yorks in every one, it made Jake’s head ache.

  Lying there on his deathbed, Eddie had asked his brother Henry why he never remembered to box out.

  He’d asked Jack Andolini who hit him with the ugly-stick.

  He’d shouted, “Look out, Roland, it’s Big-Nose George, he’s back!”

  And “Suze, if you can tell him the one about Dorothy and the Tin Woodman, I’ll tell him all the rest.”

  And, chilling Jake’s heart: “I do not shoot with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.”

  At that last one, Roland had taken Eddie’s hand in the gloom (for the sh
ades had been drawn) and squeezed it. “Aye, Eddie, you say true. Will you open your eyes and see my face, dear?”

  But Eddie hadn’t opened his eyes. Instead, chilling Jake’s heart more deeply yet, the young man who now wore a useless bandage about his head had murmured, “All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.”

  After that there was nothing intelligible for awhile, only that ceaseless muttering. Jake had refilled the basin of water, and when he had come back, Roland saw his drawn white face and told him he could go.

  “But—”

  “Go on and go, sugarbunch,” Susannah said. “Only be careful. Might still be some of em out there, looking for payback.”

  “But how will I—”

  “I’ll call you when it’s time,” Roland said, and tapped Jake’s temple with one of the remaining fingers on his right hand. “You’ll hear me.”

  Jake had wanted to kiss Eddie before leaving, but he was afraid. Not that he might catch death like a cold—he knew better than that—but afraid that even the touch of his lips might be enough to push Eddie into the clearing at the end of the path.

  And then Susannah might blame him.

  Six

  Outside in the hallway, Dinky asked him how it was going.

  “Real bad,” Jake said. “Do you have another cigarette?”

  Dinky raised his eyebrows but gave Jake a smoke. The boy tamped it on his thumbnail, as he’d seen the gunslinger do with tailor-made smokes, then accepted a light and inhaled deeply. The smoke still burned, but not so harshly as the first time. His head only swam a little and he didn’t cough. Pretty soon I’ll be a natural, he thought. If I ever make it back to New York, maybe I can go to work for the Network, in my Dad’s department. I’m already getting good at The Kill.

  He lifted the cigarette in front of his eyes, a little white missile with smoke issuing from the top instead of the bottom. The word CAMEL was written just below the filter. “I told myself I’d never do this,” Jake told Dinky. “Never in life. And here I am with one in my hand.” He laughed. It was a bitter laugh, an adult laugh, and the sound of it coming out of his mouth made him shiver.

  “I used to work for this guy before I came here,” Dinky said. “Mr. Sharpton, his name was. He used to tell me that never’s the word God listens for when he needs a laugh.”

  Jake made no reply. He was thinking of how Eddie had talked about the rooms of ruin. Jake had followed Mia into a room like that, once upon a time and in a dream. Now Mia was dead. Callahan was dead. And Eddie was dying. He thought of all the bodies lying out there under blankets while thunder rolled like bones in the distance. He thought of the man who’d shot Eddie snap-rolling to the left as Roland’s bullet finished him off. He tried to remember the welcoming party for them back in Calla Bryn Sturgis, the music and dancing and colored torches, but all that came clear was the death of Benny Slightman, another friend. Tonight the world seemed made of death.

  He himself had died and come back: back to Mid-World and back to Roland. All afternoon he had tried to believe the same thing might happen to Eddie and knew somehow that it would not. Jake’s part in the tale had not been finished. Eddie’s was. Jake would have given twenty years of his life—thirty!—not to believe that, but he did. He supposed he had progged it somehow.

  The rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.

  Jake knew a spider. Was Mia’s child watching all of this? Having fun? Maybe rooting for one side or the other, like a fucking Yankee fan in the bleachers?

  He is. I know he is. I feel him.

  “Are you all right, kiddo?” Dinky asked.

  “No,” Jake said. “Not all right.” And Dinky nodded as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer. Well, Jake thought, probably he expected it. He’s a telepath, after all.

  As if to underline this, Dinky had asked who Mordred was.

  “You don’t want to know,” Jake said. “Believe me.” He snuffed his cigarette half-smoked (“All your lung cancer’s right here, in the last quarter-inch,” his father used to say in tones of absolute certainty, pointing to one of his own filterless cigarettes like a TV pitchman) and left Corbett Hall. He used the back door, hoping to avoid the cluster of waiting, anxious Breakers, and in that he had succeeded. Now he was in Pleasantville, sitting on the curb like one of the homeless people you saw back in New York, waiting to be called. Waiting for the end.

  He thought about going into the tavern, maybe to draw himself a beer (surely if he was old enough to smoke and to kill people from ambush he was old enough to drink a beer), maybe just to see if the jukebox would play without change. He bet that Algul Siento had been what his Dad had claimed America would become in time, a cashless society, and that old Seeberg was rigged so you only had to push the buttons in order to start the music. And he bet that if he looked at the song-strip next to 19, he’d see “Someone Saved My Life Tonight,” by Elton John.

  He got to his feet, and that was when the call came. Nor was he the only one who heard it; Oy let go a short, hurt-sounding yip. Roland might have been standing right next to them.

  To me, Jake, and hurry. He’s going.

  Seven

  Jake hurried back down one of the alleys, skirted the still-smoldering Warden’s House (Tassa the houseboy, who had either ignored Roland’s order to leave or hadn’t been informed of it, was sitting silently on the stoop in a kilt and a sweatshirt, his head in his hands), and began to trot up the Mall, sparing a quick and troubled glance at the long line of dead bodies. The little séance-circle he’d seen earlier was gone.

  I won’t cry, he promised himself grimly. If I’m old enough to smoke and think about drawing myself a beer, I’m old enough to control my stupid eyes. I won’t cry.

  Knowing he almost certainly would.

  Eight

  Sheemie and Ted had joined Dinky outside the proctor’s suite. Dinky had given up his seat to Sheemie. Ted looked tired, but Sheemie looked like shit on a cracker to Jake: eyes bloodshot again, a crust of dried blood around his nose and one ear, cheeks leaden. He had taken off one of his slippers and was massaging his foot as though it pained him. Yet he was clearly happy. Maybe even exalted.

  “Beam says all may yet be well, young Jake,” Sheemie said. “Beam says not too late. Beam says thankya.”

  “That’s good,” Jake said, reaching for the doorknob. He barely heard what Sheemie was saying. He was concentrating

  (won’t cry and make it harder for her)

  on controlling his emotions once he was inside. Then Sheemie said something that brought him back in a hurry.

  “Not too late in the Real World, either,” Sheemie said. “We know. We peeked. Saw the moving sign. Didn’t we, Ted?”

  “Indeed we did.” Ted was holding a can of Nozz-A-La in his lap. Now he raised it and took a sip. “When you get in there, Jake, tell Roland that if it’s June 19th of ’99 you’re interested in, you’re still okay. But the margin’s commencing to get a little thin.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Jake said.

  “And remind him that time sometimes slips over there. Slips like an old transmission. That’s apt to continue for quite awhile, regardless of the Beam’s recovery. And once the 19th is gone…”

  “It can never come again,” Jake said. “Not there. We know.” He opened the door and slipped into the darkness of the proctor’s suite.

  Nine

  A single circle of stringent yellow light, thrown by the lamp on the bedtable, lay upon Eddie Dean’s face. It cast the shadow of his nose on his left cheek and turned his closed eyes into dark sockets. Susannah was kneeling on the floor beside him, holding both of his hands in both of hers and looking down at him. Her shadow ran long upon the wall. Roland sat on the other side of the bed, in deep shadow. The dying man’s long, muttered monologue had ceased, and his respiration had lost all semblance of regularity. He would snatch a deep breath, hold i
t, then let it out in a lengthy, whistling whoosh. His chest would lie still so long that Susannah would look up into his face, her eyes shining with anxiety until the next long, tearing breath had begun.

  Jake sat down on the bed next to Roland, looked at Eddie, looked at Susannah, then looked hesitantly into the gunslinger’s face. In the gloom he could see nothing there except weariness.

  “Ted says to tell you it’s almost June 19th America-side, please and thankya. Also that time could slip a notch.”

  Roland nodded. “Yet we’ll wait for this to be finished, I think. It won’t be much longer, and we owe him that.”

  “How much longer?” Jake murmured.

  “I don’t know. I thought he might be gone before you got here, even if you ran—”

  “I did, once I got to the grassy part—”

  “—but, as you see…”

  “He fights hard,” Susannah said, and that this was the only thing left for her to take pride in made Jake cold. “My man fights hard. Mayhap he still has a word to say.”

  Ten

  And so he did. Five endless minutes after Jake had slipped into the bedroom, Eddie’s eyes opened. “Sue…” He said, “Su…sie—”

  She leaned close, still holding his hands, smiling into his face, all her concentration fiercely narrowed. And with an effort Jake wouldn’t have believed possible, Eddie freed one of his hands, swung it a little to the right, and grasped the tight kinks of her curls. If the weight of his arm pulled at the roots and hurt her, she showed no sign. The smile that bloomed on her mouth was joyous, welcoming, perhaps even sensuous.

  “Eddie! Welcome back!”

  “Don’t bullshit…a bullshitter,” he whispered. “I’m goin, sweetheart, not comin.”